


Desolation

by worldengine



Series: Fourteen Days [3]
Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, More depressing, Movie Reference, Movie Spoilers, Superhero struggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:17:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldengine/pseuds/worldengine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part III in the Two Weeks series (please read Parts I & II first!) finds Superman/Clark still dealing with his demons. Lois runs into her own set of troubles during.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desolation

Desolation:  
Noun  
1\. A state of complete emptiness or destruction  
2\. Anguished misery or loneliness

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

On and on I continue, never stopping, never getting punishment enough to fill me up. I fly until my body cannot fly any farther. It's not the speed that ceases to give more but rather my mind, too unfocused to shift the horizons in my favor.

So I lift the steel and concrete and broken remnants of a city I will soon call home, and I do this because it's all I _can_ do. I will live here, in this state of desolation, because I deserve nothing less. I don't desire to burden my mother with values unrecognizable to the ones taught to me all my life. I cannot live beneath the roof my father spent his days believing completely that I was bound to do the right thing – whatever that right thing may be – always, no matter the circumstance.

I can't think of Jonathan Kent though, as it will serve only to condemn an already compromised perception of self.

I think of Lois. She comes into my mind every minute of every day and I... _believe_ with all I am, that she is the reason I cannot stop. It would be so easy to walk away from the endless destruction, easy to rely on the heavy machinery of man and a will power that breeds strong in Metropolis. But then I imagine her face, ashen and all to aware of how desperate these times truly are, and it moves me. I won't give in, won't leave this city to pick up the pieces I've scattered so far and wide. And I won't leave her. Not ever.

No matter how innocent or without fault Lois believes me, I--"Superman?"

My self-depreciating thoughts slip away as I burn through another I-beam and haul it down to the ground, where waiting men with yellow hardhats stand staring at me. I've unknowingly paused mid-hover and it's no wonder my unhappy reverie was broken. These workers and volunteers watch me day in and day out, their arms and legs and bodies weary, yet their spirits full of strength and a sense of knowing so clear. _They_ believe _in me_. 

Why? I... _my_ people did this. _"You had to, Clark."_ There comes her words of acceptance. Her understanding.

It's been eight days since I've left Lois alone on her balcony – eight days since I've seen her face or heard her voice in real time. Sure, there's been plenty of contact and connect between myself and the good Samaritans of this town, but...I find myself missing the one and only woman I've ever truly let in. She knows me, _all_ of who I am and when I think of this, it's humbling.

Yet despite the inward pining and selfish longings, Lois is a reminder of...of what I did to Zod. She was there, on the steps, watching as we two struggled, listening to my screams as they echoed. Then something else happened moments after: she was to my right, comforting me, bringing me back from an inconceivable edge. Lois reigned in an emotional force I've never dealt with prior; she was present through the regret and the outpouring, demanding I understand that there was simply _no_ other way.

And still, I've gone deliberately out of my way to avoid her. I've given no interviews, no chances for posed images or a group photograph giving a victorious "thumbs up." I won't do that. She will have the exclusive and it's only a matter of time as to when.

When I can swallow the guilt far enough to where I don't see it etched onto her beautiful features. When I'm able to fly past her apartment building and not think of the nightmares I had during our quick hour lying next one another. When I can sleep again, at all.

I've taken to immersing all of my energy into this clean up, barely eating, never resting. I take what I need to get by, while the day star handles any residuals. I haven't seen parts of my body for eight days, because I, almost literally, am unable stop.

What it comes down to is this: I am living in a self-made Hell and I don't want her to be a part of it. She deserves a hero that is, well, heroic. Not drowning in doubt or questioning his worth.

But... I have read her editorials. During all of this. 

The Daily Planet has taken temporary residency on the other side of the city; the Hotel Metropolis is currently housing the best and bravest of the paper's journalists, while using antiquated press methods to print and distribute on a very limited basis. As I've become a regular headline, I always manage to grab an edition late in the day, during the times where I force feed a few calories into me.

I sit high above the city as I do this; several miles out from the epicenter of destruction I pick at a bag of carrots or an apple while reading of Lois' desperation to "speak to the Man of Steel." She wants to know where I go when I'm not busy saving the world, but I get a bit of a smile over the idea because I already know that _she knows_. I have little room for wonder when it comes to the lengths Ms. Lane will go to get her story, but this time--this time is different. It has to be.

I don't _want_ her to find me in such moments of pause, least of all in times like these. I trust that she won't reveal to the public who I am, but on the other hand suspect I shouldn't push her too far. I know an ally when I meet one and Lois has been constant and steady throughout.

Looking over the horizon, I see the level of progress made in just a few short days here. I break away from contemplative thought and continue on. I complete tearing apart a forty-foot section of reinforced cement wall by blasting it into sand-sized material. The dust that shrouds this place fills the air again, and I watch as a cloud envelopes that which lies beneath.

I cringe when the particles finally settle. There's people, about twenty or so that are dead, their bodies having been trapped by the blown-in wall during one of the big events – either Zod and I or the World Engine's terraforming. This is the fourteenth time a recovery effort has turned up such sadness and its toll is taxing and runs deep. I signal to the men in charge of this particular zone and move on to the next section. There's nothing left for me to do here. 

No, there is no rest for the wicked. Nothing but emptiness now.

††††

I see his red and his blue but any images lucky enough to be captured are out of focus with an ill-fated and too-slow shutter speed. Then again, who can really estimate the proper exposure settings when your subject moves faster than the speed of sound. Much faster. 

But I hunt eagerly, on and on, for a minute snapshot that might reveal anything of my Man of Mystery. Is he okay? Is he angry with me? Why hasn't he come to speak since...well, since. 

Dwelling is for the feeble minded though, and Lois Lane is _not_ feeble; I respect the space he has chosen to place between us by writing of him with the highest of regard. My confidence never wavers, nor should it, and yet this has become the only way I know of to reach him in such desperate times. Though I've no confirmation as to whether he reads the Daily Planet on a regular beat, a part of my _knows_ he does. Clark wants to read my opinion of him as much as I long to see his face again. 

So I support and rally behind his wind-swept cape and hope–truly, I hope–he comes to me when the timing is once again right. If ever. 

"Lois, Perry needs you." I look up at the sound of Jenny's voice and realize I've been staring blankly (not for the first time) out of the window for what can only be an undetermined amount of time. This hotel is beautiful, sure, but it's old and the smell–"Lois?" 

"Going, going," I say, hoofing it into the bosses temporary office and closing a makeshift wooden door quietly behind me. 

"Sit down, Lane." Well, shit. Perry's not happy, which is exactly what I need. 

I sit and say nothing, knowing my words are the last thing he probably wants to hear. 

"Well?" he says, proving me wrong. He fixes the knot of his deep purple tie and it gives me purchase to really look at his throat; that and his face still show signs of a recent apocalyptic experience, with scratches littered here and there. 

My eyes roam to the left and right sides of his office, hoping beyond hope to figure out a clue as to what the hell White might be referencing. I come up empty. 

"Well... what?" I question, leaning forward slightly. 

He sighs–Perry does that a lot–and tips his head back towards the large pane of glass behind him. "Have you seen or spoken to the world's most news-worthy extraterrestrial?" 

I cringe, visibly, when that cold adjective ends White's inquiry. Swallowing hard, I attempt to level with him as best I can, while keeping my job and the precious secrets I know at the forefront of my mind. "No, Perry. I haven't. I told you as much three days ago when you asked me. He doesn't want to see me right now. I don't know why or why not, but that's how it is." 

Perry nods. Those nods make me nervous and I'm not a woman who gets nervous that often. 

"Well?" It was my time to pique interest and throw the proverbial ball back into his court. Deflect, really, was what I was doing. 

"Smoke him out, Lois."–Perry moves to stand now–"I don't care _what_ you have to write to get that Steely Man's attention, but get it. And get it soon. I don't think you understand the position you've put me and this entire paper in...maybe not intentionally but its happened and we can't deny it any longer." 

I'm jerky as I jump up from the now-vacant worn leather chair. "You want me to fabricate a story to trap Superman into an interview? When he so obviously wants nothing of the sort? Where is your integrity Perry?" I'm on the verge of an outburst when he moves around the desk time long ago abandoned. His fingertips slide along the chipped brown edges as he slowly makes to stand before me. Perry has always been intimidating but now, he's something else: desperate. 

I know desperate. 

"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to use what you have, whatever that may be, to call attention to him. Your current articles, while good and to the point, are lacking personal drive behind them. Ask directly about where he is, or why hasn't he spoken to you since–and then go on to name the last time the two of you shared a conversation. Do anything you need, but do it with a legitimacy that I'm certain is there." Perry doesn't wait for my response. The door to his office is opened for me and that's my cue to exit stage left. 

I sit down, deflated and forgotten and ponder my objectives. Get the story, write the story, but don't _become_ the story. How that's even avoidable at this point has become the newest conundrum to my days here at the Planet. 

I spin around in an barely-greased office chair and listen as the squeaks and squeals slowly drive me towards madness. 

A Word document is open and running; blank as it is, awaiting on letters to become words that inevitably transform into an article the people of Metropolis trust me to author. 

If only I had Kent's phone number.


End file.
